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222
A New England Girlhood, Outlined from Memory (Beverly, MA)
·
Lucy Larcom
71
The
dandelions
could
tell
us
secrets,
too.
We
blew
the
fuzz
off
their
gray
beads,
and
made
them
answer
our
question,
"Does
my
mother
want
me
to
come
home?"
Or
we
sat
down
together
in
the
velvety
grass,
and
wove
chains
for
our
necks
and
wrists
of
the
dandelion-sterns,
and
"made
believe"
we
were
brides,
or
queens,
or
empresses.
Then
there
was
the
white
rock-saxifrage,
that
filled
the
crevices
of
the
ledges
with
soft,
tufty
bloom
like
lingering
snow-drifts,
our
May-flower,
that
brought
us
the
first
message
of
spring.
There
was
an
elusive
sweetness
in
its
almost
imperceptible
breath,
which
one
could
only
get
by
smelling
it
in
close
bunches.
Its
companion
was
the
tiny
four-cleft
innocence-flower,
that
drifted
pale
sky-tints
across
the
chilly
fields.
Both
came
to
us
in
crowds,
and
looked
out
with
us,
as
they
do
with
the
small
girls
and
boys
of
to-day,
from
the
windy
crest
of
Powder
House
Hill,--the
one
playground
of
my
childhood
which
is
left
to
the
children
and
the
cows
just
as
it
was
then.
We
loved
these
little
democratic
blossoms,
that
gathered
around
us
in
mobs
at
our
May
Day
rejoicings.
It
is
doubtful
whether
we
should
have
loved
the
trailing
arbutus
any
better,
had
it
strayed,
as
it
never
did,
into
our
woods.
Violets
and
anemones
played
at
hide-and-seek
with
us
in
shady
places.
The
gay
columbine
rooted
herself
among
the
bleak
rocks,
and
laughed
and
nodded
in
the
face
of
the
east
wind,
coquettishly
wasting
the
show
of
her
finery
on
the
frowning
air.
Bluebirds
twittered
over
the
dandelions
in
spring.
In
midsummer,
goldfinches
warbled
among
the
thistle-tops;
and,
high
above
the
bird-congregations,
the
song-sparrow
sent
forth
her
clear,
warm,
penetrating
trill,--sunshine
translated
into
music.
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